


enough

by Starfire (kalypsobean)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Anxiety, Dysfunctional Relationships, Knifeplay, M/M, No Sex, Non-Sexual Kink, Painplay, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrection, Violet Wand, vampire gloves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:34:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/Starfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Batman kept some kryptonite. Of course, Superman came back. Of course, they both have issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themisto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themisto/gifts).



The last time it was like this, it was different. Then, it was raw and imprecise; he was cold, the rain and mud made it hard to move and stung on his exposed skin, and words weren't anything but sound, a thing to be made louder and less coherent until they stopped. Then, he'd had bruises through his armour, and had to be stitched up where it had broken and sliced into the muscle, and he'd been limited in his choice of tools, first to what he could make and what he could carry, and then what he could still use when his body was breaking down without his permission. Then, Clark fought back.

It had haunted him for a while, after; that he'd come so close to bringing down something so immortal and still failed, that he hadn't been enough. It had worked out, but he hadn't done it alone; he's been alone, ever since, and he was alone before. 

 

He wakes up choking, sometimes, because now being alone isn't enough; it isn't safe, and no amount of training, nor research, nor tools, will allow him to be enough again. He can't remember what he sees in his dreams, just how they make him feel. He wakes up afraid, inadequate. Some days he feels that he should never have come back; other days, he pushes himself to become stronger, and some nights he doesn't sleep as he draws his symbol across the sky, saving what he can.

He has a new apartment too; it's more of a penthouse, with walls of glass so he can see anyone coming. Glass was easier to reinforce, too, and easier to check if it's been altered; he looks for cracks every time he enters, and inspects the film along the edges, as if someone could get in and replace it so they could see in. He doesn't use it all the time, of course; it's new, built and paid for since the incident, and therefore nobody should be looking for him there, so it feels safer. It feels like his; he hasn't decorated, because that would draw attention, and so there's nothing in there that he hasn't brought in himself; there aren't any of Alfred's small accoutrements, no subtle alterations to make things easier with comforts most people would apparently think necessary.

 

It's not a surprise when he lets himself in and someone else is there. He's only there because of an alarm - the first one had gone off in a meeting, the quiet beep enough to silence the room and give him an excuse to escape. The second and third were inconsequential, really; they only served to tell him who had found it, because the pressure sensors were calibrated to not be triggered by his own body mass, and no human could have disconnected the motherboard without tearing through the walls and bringing the roof on top of them, causing quite another alarm to sound. 

"I hope you don't mind," Clark says, and though Bruce had weeks to adjust to the idea of Superman hiding in the same way as he does, with a human identity and life to be maintained and used as needed, and had the drive from Gotham's city centre to process that he isn't in a hole in the ground any more, it's Clark's voice that sets him off. "I wasn't sure whether I still had a home," he says, and because Bruce no longer knows how to tell the difference, if there ever was one, he can feel how tension spirals down his arms and into his hands at the same time it clutches his heart and twists until the pain leaves him without breath.

"You can stay here while the paperwork is sorted," Bruce says, because he knows how it is to come back from the dead, and the last thing he wants is Superman out there where he can't be watched. "I assume you know your way around."

At least the scotch is untouched, though it seems Clark had found his way around the kitchenette and at least one grocery store and made something resembling food, if the smell is an indication. Bruce doesn't enjoy drinking, but he needs to dull everything before it takes him over, and Clark's at his shoulder, a glass in each hand, as if it's something they have in common.

He doesn't talk while he drinks, or even when Clark hands him a plate of food. Before, it had been small talk, with no real need to think about the words, and then rage, and then nothing. Bruce wonders if a normal person would apologise, though Clark not bringing it up either makes him uncertain, in a way he doesn't like; they were allies, briefly, but never close, like this, or even friends. He still watches Clark, waits for him to taste everything before he starts - the beef first, then a potato, then a carrot. It's simple food that Bruce has never really eaten like this, just on its own from a plate that isn't stylised and decorated, and now that he knows where Clark came from, he knows it's probably a recipe he learned from his mother, passed down from hers, and Clark probably learnt it from watching her, and that making it was a form of comfort for him, a kind of normalcy he can't have.

 

"It doesn't feel," Clark says, trailing off as if the words won't come, as if they mean something, after so long a silence. "Real, I suppose. I was dead, after all. Now, I'm not." He sounds lifeless, as if he can't understand the emotions enough for them to affect his words. Bruce knows that; he knows how it feels to feel nothing and be confused by everything else, to lack something to call home, and feel unsafe because of it. That, he can see in the way Clark tests the words in his mouth before he says them, as if he's afraid of how the sound will affect him, as if saying it will make it real and push the numbness away. 

"Do you feel pain?" he says. He knows the answer, of course; he saw Superman cringe away from him, the kryptonite wracking his system and drawing wordless, mindless cries that echoed and fell flat in the rain. "Like us, I mean. If I hit you, would it hurt?"

"Of course," Clark says. "It's not..."

Clark doesn't finish the sentence because he breathes out, suddenly, because Bruce hits him.

Clark glares at him.

"Was that real?" Bruce asks, not just because Clark is still breathing normally after that one lost gasp, more from surprise, or because he has to cover for his hand hurting despite his perfect, automatic technique.

"Yes," Clark says. "It was. I tried that, though." He holds up his own hands, the skin unbroken and smooth, and he flattens them out, turns them in the air to show Bruce the palms. "It didn't last."

"Would you trust me, now?" Bruce says. "To hurt you, I mean."

He doesn't deny to himself that the thought is strangely enticing; he's used to power, after all, and feeling that power over others, but not like this. He's never been able to afford the risk to his cover that would come from someone talking, even just in private, about how Bruce Wayne plays that particular version of hard, and no amount of money would pay for someone to cover those kinds of bruises. He's not a stranger to it, though it's been light enough to write off as playful, and he's been on Clark's side more often than not, since that was deemed more acceptable by the board, most of whom were the ones handing him referrals.

He knows Clark can see how his body betrays him at this point; the anxiety almost fading just at the prospect of release, and yet being hyperaware at the same time, attuned to even the air moving over his skin and the sound of Clark breathing.

 

"Yes," Clark says. "Within reason, of course." Bruce thinks of the kryptonite; he'd lied about using it all, though what had been left wouldn't have been enough even if he'd felt safe enough to give it up. That would, of course, be what Clark meant, not that he could have known. After all, it really wasn't so long ago that he'd meant it more literally, from that other place in his mind where results were all that mattered and Clark was an obstacle, a cause to be neutralised.

"Within reason," Bruce agrees. "Is there anything I should avoid?"

Clark winces, and Bruce knows that means there's a bad experience there, somewhere, from when Clark was looking for his own limits; he has them too, and that's how he knows not to ask when Clark shakes his head, as if talking about that would make it real, too. 

"Just, I need a minute," Clark says, and he moves nearly silently, and when he's out of sight it's almost as if he wasn't there at all. Bruce wipes down the plates and puts them aside, keeping his hands busy while his mind wanders; Clark even put leftovers in the refrigerator, so he's staying at least a day, and Bruce takes that into account.

 

"This isn't..." he says, when he finds Clark in the bedroom, stripped to the waist and kneeling on the bed, the one thing other than security that Bruce had cared about when setting up the penthouse. It's big enough for both of them, enough that when Clark looks up at him and looks almost lost, without any semblance of a facade or pretend strength, there's room for Bruce to press himself up against Clark, measuring Clark's body against his own and feeling where the pressure points and shallow veins may be from where the warmest points are.

"You don't have to be afraid of me now," he says, whispering it into Clark's ear. "If it's too much, you can stop me," he says. He can feel Clark nod into his shoulder, as if he'd lost his words again, in an unfamiliar situation of deliberate vulnerability. He pulls back, tugging his shirt loose and lets Clark watch him unbutton it and cast it aside, then standing and turning so Clark can see he doesn't have anything else to hide, though he catches himself wondering what made Clark flinch when he unbuckled his belt.

"It's just leather," he says, as he wraps it around his wrist. Clark remains still, as still as he had when Bruce had embraced him. "See?" He drags the back of his hand across Clark's chest, and up to his face. It's quality, of course, soft and supple, and it tells him that Clark won't react to small things, that sensation play is useless as a tool, at least for today.

"I'll be right back," he says, because somehow he feels that if he doesn't keep talking the silence will be too heavy to get through, and he doesn't want to leave Clark wondering what's next. He's not set up for this sort of thing, since he'd never planned to bring anyone here, though he has a small arsenal in case of emergency or just because. Clark sags just as he leaves the room, though, and so he's quick to get what he thinks he'll need.

Bruce has tortured enough people to know when they're close to breaking; he wants to be there when it happens tonight.

 

"Lie back," he says when he returns, after switching the lights off and gathering a small bag's worth of tools. Weapons, really, though he tells himself not to think of them that way, even as the bat shape sat in his palm just so, as if to remind him why Clark chose to come here. The room is dim, now, half cast in the darkness he knows so well. The sheets are cotton, soft but replaceable, and he hopes they will ground Clark, a constant against his plan, either for comparison or comfort. He wouldn't go so far with a new partner, normally, but even Bruce knows this isn't normal, or entirely safe; he's trusting Clark just as much, if not more, knowing that there's trauma there and therefore reactions that he can't predict. Yet, anyway.

He doesn't deny to himself that this is his best chance to learn what will affect Clark in case he needs to bring down Superman again, and what to protect against if they continue as allies. It's what made him choose what he did, why he prepares himself so carefully as Clark watches; he lays out a sheathed military knife and a batarang, climbing gloves and vampire gloves, a vibrator and a violet wand. He lights a candle, too, one of the scented ones with enough wicks to burn down a country house if it gets knocked over, and sits a small jar of isopropyl alcohol next to it, where the candlelight illuminates the label.

He doesn't intend to use them all, of course; he wants to see Clark's reaction when he moves aside and the array is revealed. He won't waste a good knife on the alcohol, and he certainly won't risk the bed going up in flames, but Clark doesn't know that. The way Clark's breath falters when he sees those, the way he tenses enough that the tendons in his neck raise beneath the skin and he scrunches the sheets in his fists without tearing them show that perhaps Bruce isn't the only one with less common interests, though tonight isn't about that. He can also tell that Clark has fine motor control even under stress, which is useful to know even though the implications make him a little more wary, remembering the last time it was like this.

Then, he had kryptonite and it wasn't enough; he had his armour and many more options to choose from, still not enough. Then, when he reached out, Superman pushed back. Now, Clark remains still, pliant and almost resigned, though he watches everything Bruce does, as if waiting to be betrayed, to be beaten back down and killed again.

"Impact play doesn't work on you, as we know," Bruce says, shaking his hand again as if it still hurts. Clark doesn't react, not even to grimace as if in regret for hurting Bruce, and that says he's starting to fade, lost between being sure and not knowing if this can be trusted, drifting perfectly in a headspace where Bruce can push him any way he wants.

Drawing someone into a space of comfort rather than fear is a rare enough pleasure for Bruce that he takes his time; he remembers enough about their encounter to know that he won't be able to draw blood or make marks, but the sensitive spots are the same. He starts with just one vampire glove, so he can see if there's a difference between how Clark reacts to the spikes and just the touch of his hand alone. At first it's negligible; the skin doesn't even redden, but when Bruce slides the gloved hand over Clark's neck, pressing in with pressure that would normally leave scratches, Clark seems to pull away and then relax into it, as if the touch is comforting in a way he doesn't feel used to.

"I need to know if this is alright," Bruce says, keeping his hand still. Clark nods, and Bruce lets go, leaving Clark to breathe in and then out, the exhale jagged. Bruce runs the glove up his own arm before he sets it aside; it isn't noticeably blunted, but there are no marks on Clark's throat. 

Clark's eyes are closed when Bruce turns back. He feels it needs to escalate quickly; as if he drags it out too long something will break in Clark, even though he's not sure what exactly that would be. It hasn't been enough so far, that he knows, and all he's done is shown that he won't use this trust to do something Clark wouldn't want. He hasn't learned anything, either, not really; he's seen Clark thrown through a building and be dazed for only seconds, so naturally a few thumbtacks wouldn't do anything except in Clark's mind, and that is wandering.

It only takes a few minutes to set up, minutes in which he knows the telltale hum is the only sound that matters once he's plugged the wand in and tucked the electrode down under his waistband. It's going to limit his movement, for a while, but it's a small compromise. It's unusual to have the wand on but not feel it, but his senses are heightened anyway, as if the current was amplifying every touch. He adjusts the electrode once he's on the bed, knife in hand, and settles himself over Clark's waist. 

He can tell the moment when Clark feels it; it's not the first cut, or the second, or even the third. It's when he drags the knife diagonally down, making a point on the centre of Clark's chest, perhaps the fifth cut - with no marks, it's harder to tell where he's already carved. 

Clark's eyes open and he looks about; it would be strange, perhaps, for anyone else to relax, their forehead easing at the sight of a cable running to a wand and then to the wall, yet Bruce knows the thoughts that make Clark's shoulders sag. The blade in Bruce's hand won't cut Clark, but the current passing through it makes it feel like it could, and the shape Bruce is carving, or would be, is one Clark knows well.

"Finish it," Clark says, and he puts his hands on Bruce's thighs, holding him there even after the S is done and Bruce has sheathed the knife.

 

The candle has burned down before Clark lets him go, sleep taking him, though whether it's because he felt safe enough to rest or because his body gave out, Bruce won't know until Clark wakes up. He blows it out after he puts everything else back in its place; it wouldn't do to need something and it not be there to be found, after all. He's still thinking, too, enough that sleep wouldn't come easily if he were to lie down, and so he settles with his laptop and a remote encrypted connection; something else occurred to him, in that moment when he was looking down and saw Clark relax, almost able to accept being alive. He splits the night between watching Clark sleep and pulling financials on an Argentinian supplier, as if the answer to whether Clark can be trusted is somewhere still to be found.

**Author's Note:**

> I am very grateful to Themisto for a wonderful prompt which gave me all sorts of wonderful ideas that didn't make it into the fic because it became this whole other thing entirely because apparently hope and rainbows and fluffy bunnies don't exist because apparently now people use fluffy bunnies to make fluffy bunny versions of vampire gloves and I am totally blaming them for every future instance of bunny block, ever. And I know this because researching this took me to some very nice, fun, sites where these things could be purchased and that made me sad because fluffy bunnies apparently died to bring you this fic. Everything in this fic can be done without killing bunnies. Be grateful Bruce didn't light the knife on fire. He thought about it. Bruce Wayne, ladies and gentlemen and genteelnon-binary people.


End file.
